


let our glory days die

by wanderlustt



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: A Lot of Death, Angst, Asphyxiation, Character Study, Disturbing Themes, F/M, Horror, Mild Sexual Content, Mutilation, Psychological Horror, the one where everyone dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 06:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20925926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderlustt
Summary: Fantasies never truly last.Byleth learns this cold truth when Edelgard strikes Claude down with one hit: clean and clinical, as if she had planned it long in advance, fine-tuned it in practice, and executed it with impeccable precision.It’s a theater act -- it must’ve been -- and it’s the only explanation that makes sense.





	let our glory days die

“What’s a girl like ye walkin’ aroun’ these ruins this time o’ night?” 

Uninvited, Byleth takes a seat at the campfire.

Among her: four men telling stories, laughing and drinking ale under the thick of moonlight. One old and gray, another fat and round, and a third with a face full of cysts and warts. Each one drunker than the next. The last, an archer, nose-deep in his book of fables, does not partake.

She smiles. “I heard you were telling ghost stories.”

The fat one studies her, his gaze resting firm on her breasts. “What’s it to ye?”

Byleth evaluates the risks quickly. She figures she can take them even if they decide to alter their tune and attack her. The fat one looks like he hasn’t seen much in the way of a good fight; the cystic one looks too thin to have picked up a proper sword; and the old one looks so brittle he might keel over and die before he tastes his first breath of battle.

Not to mention, there’s nothing more dangerous than a girl with nothing to lose.

Byleth smiles. “I have a story.”

Though the irony now, perhaps, is that she does have _something_ to lose, namely the Sword of the Creator, along with the bloody knapsack she’s cradling in her arms -- but even they can’t be foolish enough to pry it from her dead hands.

At the sound of her voice, the archer perks up, his pretty green eyes darting from the open book on his lap to her ghostly figure across the fire. “_Professor_! What’re you doing here?”

After all this time, he hasn’t lost that unfettered optimism that punches every word he says.

The fat one picks at his teeth with a chicken bone. “_Ye_ know her, Ashe?”

“We…were acquainted at Garreg Mach.” Ashe looks anxious and not even that sheepish grin is enough to hide his reservations. “We…we thought you must’ve died during the war.” And a bit more unsurely: “There were reports that Edelguard had you executed in the capital.”

Byleth looks at him, looks at her hands, and back at him again with the faintest glimmer of a smile. “Flesh and bones.” The joke falls on deaf ears. “It’s good to see you again, Ashe.”

He remembers his formalities, though it belies a sense of queasiness. “It’s good to see you too, professor.”

Byleth’s eyes dart to the tree behind him, where there sits a noose hanging from the highest branch. Bereaved of a corpse, but still threadbare from wear and time. She wonders how many people have died in that noose.

Wart-face eyes her carefully from across the fire. “What’s in that bag of yers?” 

Byleth smiles wryly. “Nothing that would interest you.”

“Well, I’d be the judge o’ that, girl.”

“It's a severed head.”

Fatty chokes on his laughter. “Ahhhhhh, _terrifyin’_.”

“Ye’ll hafta try a great deal harder if that’s the story ye’re stickin’ with.” Wart-face sneers. “Or maybe ye’re in the business of jestin’.”

“Ain’t nothin’ funny ‘bout that.” The oldest merc leans over the fire between them, warming his hands. “And we weren’t tellin’ no ghost stories, girl. _War_ stories. Our glory days. ‘Fore we grew ol’ and started pickin’ away at scraps from leftover villages bastardized by ‘em imperial cunts.”

“Fuck ye, Owan.” Fatty flicks the remains of his chicken bones into the fire. “I ain’t ol’ yet." 

“Glory days, huh.” Byleth considers it as she takes a firm look at the book Ashe is holding open in his lap. A book of fables, surely. She’s surprised it’s managed to survive, given the imperial edict. Edelguard had nearly every book in the kingdom burned to ash. “I have plenty of those too.”

Ashe grins just a bit too eagerly. “We'd be happy to hear them, professor."

The others don’t fight his invitation. It seems he must have quite some say in what goes on in their merry band of mischief and tomfoolery. The thought makes Byleth smile, if only for a moment.

She puts her knapsack on her lap and holds court.

* * *

It begins one foggy night when Byleth and Claude set out to retake Garreg Mach monastery after their reunion at dawn.

Boisterous and burly, Raphael emerges from the thick of trees with a battle cry so agonizingly loud, even the crows escape their nests in fear. It comes as no surprise though: he had always been the most eager and actionable of Byleth’s pupils and she was sure that’d get him into trouble someday. She just never thought it would be so soon.

A volley of arrows graze his shoulders as he meets the open plains, but it’s the open gash in his lower abdomen from a particularly stubborn thief that keeps him bedridden for weeks to come. 

Everyone, for the most part, does their due diligence to help. Marianne takes great care to bandage and dress his wounds, Lorenz writes the allying lords for extra provisions to keep him fed and full, Leonie scrounges up her bow and arrow to hunt for meat, Lysithea pours over tomes to find a proper restorative spell, and Hilda does, in fact, take the time to boil him hot water for tea. 

Soon enough, Raphael is back on his feet, even if it is with a limp. “I’ll be back to full strength before you know it,” he'd say, grinning.

With everyone nearly recovered, Claude decides this is a good time assess their strategy for Ailell and keep things in the alliance army up to speed.

As the battalion leaders gather in the council hall, the air fills with a cacophony of eagerness and chatter. Alongside Ignatz and Hilda, Raphael is the last to arrive, but before he can even step through the entrance of the hall, he utters a grunt, vomits blood, and collapses to the floor in a heap. 

Lysithea spends restless nights pouring over old textbooks studying his symptoms before she comes up with a diagnosis, though her intuition is what leads her there first. “Poison-tipped arrows,” she says, grimly, as she gathers their members in the library to discuss their next point of action. “We must’ve overlooked it after we retook the church.”

Lorenz looks disgusted. “A coward’s tool.” 

Marianne, ashamedly, says, “I should’ve been more careful.”

“There’s nothing you could’ve done,” Claude says. “We treated what we thought was right.”

It’s a lie.

“He’s a casualty of carelessness,” Leonie mumbles.

Hilda frowns. “Are you joking? He’s a casualty of war.” 

But more often than not, there’s no difference between the two. Byleth cradles these words and swallows them whole before taking off towards the infirmary where Raphael is sleeping.

Claude catches her in the corridors before she can get too far. “My friend.”

She doesn’t stop for him. “What is it?”

He grabs her by the wrist and stops her short. “When are you going to stop beating yourself up over something that was out of your control?”

Even now, there is no flutter in her stomach, only the feeling of dread. She’d imagined a moment like this between them many times; yet what should have been dreamy, delicious, and sweet has turned into ash and bitters in her mouth.

“There was nothing you could’ve done,” he says again. 

Perhaps he thinks if he says it enough, he’ll start believing it. For a moment, at least, it fools Byleth.

Even on his deathbed, Raphael is all joy and not a bit lachrymose. “Guess I’ll get to see my mom and pops earlier than I expect,” he utters, two beads of sweat forming over his brow; and to Ignatz, who’s yet to leave his bedside, he tacks on. “Take care of my little sister for me, will you?”

“Raphael, I—” Ignatz’s eyes well with tears and he nods. “I will. I promise.”

Raphael dies when the sun breaks overhead and leaves the sky bloody.

Byleth helps bury his body alone in the cemetery of the church. She takes great care to tend to his grave: she erects the headstone, plants flowers, and leaves his favorite dishes as offerings in the morning before the sun can rise.

One day, over dinner, as they eat their scraps of provisions, Claude starts spewing wisdom and instruction under the guise of banter and good cheer. “Your instinct is a powerful thing,” he says, chewing on a particularly rough piece of flank. “If you’re in a clearing, and there’s no one to call out commands, do what you need to do to survive, even if that means hiding.”

Hilda is the first to chirp: “So you’re saying if my instinct is to run, I should run?" 

Everyone laughs.

Everyone except Byleth, who smiles and tells herself that this won’t last.

* * *

She’s right (of course). 

She’s always right.

In the Valley of Torment, Leonie is next.

Though she isn’t necessarily the cleverest mind or the strongest lance, she’s always been the most capable and, more importantly, most consistent. An absolutely perfect frontline and battering ram, more reliable than even Lorenz. She’s someone Byleth learns to count on and lean on when it matters most.

But Leonie’s reliability quickly becomes her undoing as they’re ambushed in fumes of fire and flames.

There’s too many of them, the field is chaotic with horses, fire, and men: Gwendal’s forces are sturdier and stronger and there are only so many blunt hits one shield can absorb before it shatters to pieces. Her pride stops her from crying out for help and it’s only when she has four spears protruding from her abdomen that she realizes it’s too late. 

Byleth rushes down the burning field and holds Leonie tightly, wondering if she’s always been this small and fragile. Sitting on her horse, she always looked like she was ready to conquer the world. It’s easy, Byleth thinks, to forget she’s just a girl.

“At least…I’ll get to…” Every word takes an enormous amount of effort to pluck out. “I’ll get to see Captain Jeralt first.”

Byleth holds her just a bit tighter, looking at the four different spears impaled through her stomach. Blood is pooling so quickly that she can see the color leave Leonie’s cheeks.

“_Oi! She’s over here_!”

“_Get her_!”

Shadows of men begin to sweep the melting plain before her; even as the embers lick at their rubber soles, they find a pathway to them.

“Stay with me.” Byleth takes great care to lean Leonie’s head against the mount of her dead mare. “We’ll get through this together.”

Byleth stands and raises her blade.

The shadows fall, one-by-one, but they emerge from the valley just as quickly as they die. It isn’t until Lorenz relieves her of her position that Byleth is able to catch her breath.

But it’s too late.

She finds Leonie dead with eyes wide open.

Four corpses lay in a heap around her; Leonie dies with the pathos of a warrior queen, fighting until her last breath. She dies quietly: unknown, unheard, and unseen. She dies like a hero the old bards don’t sing for.

Byleth learns one certain truth that day, even as she watches her army, her allies, her friends, and her students continue their assault across emblazoned fields of fire and ash.

Everyone dies alone.

* * *

They have only moments of time to spare after their victory at Myrrdin and Claude dispatches Lorenz to House Gloucester to convince his father to join the Alliance. It’s a good ploy -- it’s the _right_ ploy -- and Claude takes up his mantle of leadership and sets out to sweet-mouth the other lords who’ve yet to declare their loyalties. 

It’s time they start providing provisions for the alliance army; the empire is within sight of attack; it’d be in their best interest to be on the right side of history. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you know, the whole shebang,” he’d said, winking. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Byleth isn’t sure if he’s saying that for her sake or his.

Lorenz is far less amused, even as he mounts his horse. “It’s pertinent you take these matters seriously, Claude. You are the heir to House Riegan; and the Alliance, much to my chagrin, sees you as the natural successor to the throne once we end this ceaseless war.”

“Let me take a gander. If I don’t, you’ll have my head?”

“_Please_. You know the offer is tempting.”

Claude makes the wise decision to rein back that silver tongue as he flies off into the air with a smile while Lorenz starts down the long winding road of Garreg Mach with his battalion of cavalry and archers.

For a moment, Byleth thinks if they have Claude manning the skies and Lorenz watching the ground, nothing can stop them.

No, she tells herself. “Hope is only ever rewarded with betrayal,” she mutters quietly under her breath, words swept away into the dusk wind. As the sun falls over the horizon, Byleth lets her smile drop. 

* * *

Marianne is the first to receive word. 

A letter, signed with a stamp and sigil. She cradles the parchment paper with trembling hands and clutches it crumpled to her chest. “House Gloucester has declared their loyalty to the empire,” she says, voice so soft Byleth can hardly hear. “Lorenz…he…”

Byleth takes the letter and reads it once, twice, and three times for good measure. 

Lorenz is dead.

The letter from House Gloucester spares no expense with the gruesome details: Lorenz and his battalion are invited under guest rite to dine and feast under Gloucester hospitality. And while they traded stories and wine, the kitchenhands unsheathed their bows and let their arrows fly into the night.

It’s a taunt.

Marianne looks sick, her lower lip quivering. “…how could Count Gloucester do something like that to his own son?”

Byleth meets her gaze, knowing that truth would do nothing but burden her. “Perhaps we underestimated their desperation.” 

It’s the wrong answer and Marianne wilts.

Byleth leaves in the dead of night with nothing but her sword and a prayer, but Claude catches her on his return trip before she can take two steps into the shade of the wood.

“Teach, I didn’t think you’d be foolish enough to throw away your life,” he remarks, looking very tired as he dismounts his wyvern in the open field. “Vengeance doesn’t really suit you well, if we’re being honest here.”

She says nothing, just sidesteps him as he blocks her path.

He steps in front of her yet again. “Hey, don’t throw your life away for my mistake.”

She looks at him. “It’s not just your mistake.”

He leans closer until his face is only inches away from hers. “Don’t mean to make it all about me, but it would really muddle my conscience if you died tonight, not to mention it’d probably put a huge damper on group morale.”

Byleth sees white and finds herself holding her carving knife to Claude’s neck. “How can you be so callous?”

“Whoa now, teach. We’re friends here, aren’t we?”

It takes a moment for Byleth to return to her senses. Another moment to drop her hands to her sides. A third to slip her carving knife back into its hilt.

He looks down at her but makes no move to touch her or comfort her. “Going on a one-man crusade into enemy territory is like serving a fresh platter of roast pig to the Gloucester residence. You’ll just fatten them up. 

A pause.

“You _must_ know that, my friend.”

She does.

Byleth learns only in retrospect that Claude has saved her life tonight.

* * *

Marianne has been quieter than usual. 

She prays more, spends her time cleaning the statues of the four saints, and weeps inside the greenhouse when she thinks no one’s watching. She stops tying her hair in that immaculate blue bun, stops eating at the dining hall, and stops spending time in the stables.

Byleth lets her grieve, gives her space, and offers her a shoulder to lean on in her time of need.

Marianne, for what it’s worth, decides to take her up on that offer. “Would you…let me sit out in our next battle, professor? I’m afraid I would only get in the way.”

Byleth thinks it’s a cry for help; in a way, it is, but she reads all the signs wrong. “Marianne, you’re a vital part of our team. I can’t have you do that.”

“Oh.” A pause, a look of disappointment, and a sigh that never comes. “I see.”

Marianne takes her last breath at Gronder Field when no one else is looking.

They don’t discover her body until the battle is over, until the remaining imperial forces retreat into the shadows, until fog settles over the field, cloaking them in despair and solitude. They find traces of her hair first – blue looks unnatural on plains soaked in mud and blood. Byleth is the one who finds her trail and follows it to a pile of corpses, stacked nearly twenty feet high. Arms and limbs protrude, bloodied and battered, and Byleth digs through them, tossing bodies this way and that until she discovers what she’s looking for.

Marianne lies at the bottom of the pile.

With brute strength alone, Hilda manages to fish her corpse out.

“She must’ve died of asphyxiation,” Ignatz says sadly, as he moves to close Marianne’s eyes. “She probably couldn’t breathe, let alone cry out for help.”

Byleth should’ve seen the signs. The flightiness, the empty look in her eyes, the quiet weeping in the shadows of the greenhouse. No, she _had_ seen the signs, but she’d misinterpreted them; ignored them outright. She saw what she wanted to see, a different kind of cry for help.

Marianne dies because of Byleth’s carelessness.

She whispers this certainty to herself, when she thinks no one else is listening; and this time, she knows it’s the truth. “It’s my fault." 

But Lysithea hears, Lysithea is listening, and when she comes over, she gives Byleth a good slap in the face that’s enough to jolt her back to reality.

“Do you hear yourself?” She snaps. “Pull it together, professor. We have a war to fight.”

* * *

Enbarr is next. 

There are far too many blind spots and the city is too big, but Byleth keeps their units tight-knit and close, as to keep an eye on them. But being in such close proximity makes it so they’re bumping elbows and suffocating on each other’s breath. They’re closer, safer perhaps, but they’re also more prone to error.

“I’ll be honest,” Ignatz says sheepishly. “I feel better knowing our professor is here.” And then he eyes Claude and his new convoy of Almyran forces. “Claude, too.”

“Claude, _especially_.” Lysithea’s voice is withering and cold but filled with relief. “He’s the one who brought reinforcements.”

But with so many forces in close proximity things get messy.

Bodies are thrown around like ragdolls and Byleth loses count at how many ways they can break; blood splatters like paint against the floors of Enbarr, deep into the crevices between tiles, like a patchwork quilt of veins and arteries; there are too many blades, too many arrows to count, too many fists, too many screams of agony.

Hilda catches an axe in the shoulder that’s meant for Claude. But the blade is dull and doesn’t cut clean through her, only stopping short of her heart. She utters a cry of anguish and collapses to her knees.

“Hilda!”

Claude holds her as she bleeds out in his arms: broken, battered, like a puppet and her punctured joints. It’s brutal and looks terribly painful, but Hilda ekes out the faintest smile as she allows herself to rest in his embrace.

“Sorry, Claude,” she says; it’s the first time she’s ever apologized, and the word sounds unfamiliar and foreign on her tongue. “It was instinct.” 

For once, he is at a loss. “Hilda…”

“If we’re being honest here, it _totally_ wasn’t worth it.” Her smile betrays her, as she looks up to meet Byleth’s gaze. “Professor?”

Byleth kneels to listen. She holds her breath.

“My brother always told me dying is like…going to sleep.” It takes the utmost care for Hilda to shove out her next few words, strained and bruised, like they’ve gone through a grater. “He’s such a liar…”

Byleth spends too much time lingering and doesn’t realize the Death Knight has descended upon them.

Ignatz raises his bow and arrow. “I think I’ve got a shot!”

“No!” As Byleth rushes to stop him, his arrow zips through the air with a whistle.

The Death Knight catches it, crushes it into dust, and retaliates with a spell from the high heavens.

Ignatz never had a chance. 

He sputters and spews, eyes bloodshot and red: he collapses into a pile of dead men and Byleth scrambles to fish him out, holding onto his hand.

“I don’t want to die,” he says, his breath only half a whisper, as the bodies begin to suffocate and consume him whole. “I don’t…I don’t want to die…professor, please—it hurts—"

There’s nothing holding him together except skin. He’s bleeding internally, so profusely, that there’s no telling where he’s been hit. If what Lysithea says is right, his innards have been melted to shreds; and that voice in his throat is nothing but the echo of a ghost.

Ignatz dies with bloody tears, Hilda with her bloody axe; their stories end with their final breaths. 

* * *

Somewhere between Enbarr and the capital, Byleth finds herself standing in front of Claude’s room, swaying with drunken swagger, yet utterly bereaved of any liquor or goodwill. She stands there for some time until the door opens first, and Claude is standing in the frame of the doorway, wearing nothing but a white tunic and a pair of slacks.

“Byleth?”

She kisses him.

Maybe this is wrong, she thinks, but in the moment, it doesn’t feel wrong and regretting something in retrospect seems pointless when their days are numbered.

He leans in and kisses her back, closing the door quietly behind them.

They don’t say much to one another as they fuck: everything is too urgent, too wet, and too hot. Byleth closes her eyes as he trails kisses down her neck, trying desperately to live in the moment as he thrusts himself inside her; she throws herself away as they make their way to his bed; she forgets herself when he cums.

They lie there for some time, sweating and catching their breath before he speaks up first.

“We should run.”

Byleth decides to humor him, for what it’s worth, because she’s reserved at least _some_ admiration for his ability to find humor in the bleak. “Where would we go?”

“Almyra.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What do you think?”

“Almyra?” Byleth laughs; it’s the first time she’s laughed in some time, and the brief taste of joy feels good on her tongue, almost sweet. The country is foreign to her; she doesn’t speak their native tongue; and yet it’s a fantasy she’s willing to indulge. “If you must know, I’m not against it.”

“Fantastic. Because I plan to bring you as my court jester.”

She laughs again, burying her face into Claude’s shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

His skin is warm against hers, and for a moment, she all but forgets about the war, the capital, and Edelguard.

He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Then how about as my wife?" 

She looks at him, really looks at him, and wonders if he’s being serious. She’s about to ask if he’s proposing, but he interjects before she gets the chance. “I would propose _properly_, of course,” he says, as if reading her mind. “But definitely not post-coitus. I’m not an animal, you know.”

Byleth’s eyes well up with tears and she presses a gentle kiss to his neck, right where she can feel his pulse. 

Claude extends an arm around her and tucks her against his chest. “At least we still have each other for now."

"Always," Byleth replies softly. "Always."

* * *

Fantasies never truly last. 

Byleth learns this cold truth when Edelguard strikes Claude down with one hit: clean and clinical, as if she had planned it long in advance, fine-tuned it in practice, and executed it with impeccable precision. It’s a theater act -- it must’ve been -- and it’s the only explanation that makes sense.

Even as the imperial queen sits on her throne of victory, she offers Byleth one moment of respite.

She imagines Claude croaking out one last laugh. 

_Should’ve taken me up on my offer_, he’d say. _Stupid of you, truly._

_Is this really the time to be making jokes?_ She’d snap_. You’re ridiculous._

_Ridiculously in love with you, maybe_.

It doesn’t really sound like him, but she cuts herself some slack. People sound different when they’d dying. With Claude, she wouldn’t know. She’ll never get the chance now. Death has stolen the moment from her.

She cradles Claude’s severed head to her chest and looks up at Edelguard. “I’ll be back for you.”

The imperial queen doesn’t flinch. “I know." 

* * *

Lysithea and Byleth are all that’s left.

Byleth is almost sure there’s a certain irony to their situation but doesn’t have the stomach to say it aloud. 

They share their last meal on the steps of Garreg Mach before they go on their separate ways. With Claude dead, there’s little tethering them together but mutual grief and despair; and Byleth knows better than anyone that it’s not enough to keep them together.

“I don’t plan on living very long anyway,” Lysithea says, equal parts bitter, equal parts dispassion as she treats herself to her last slice of angel cake. “And I wouldn’t want you to see me in my last moments, either. Your incessant crying would surely give me a headache.”

Byleth doesn’t even have the strength to muster out a laugh.

Lysithea sounds withered as ever, but there’s a glimpse of undeniable pity in her eyes as she studies her former professor’s face. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “I will.”

Byleth knows Lysithea doesn’t believe her.

At this point, with the bloody knapsack in her lap, she doesn't care either. She just smiles.

* * *

No one will remember her.

And over time, no one will remember Claude von Riegan either. They are ghosts in the history books, and soon enough they’ll never exist at all. No one will write their tales and no bards will sing their songs.

The thought makes her laugh -- she doesn’t mean to, but she does, and it’s enough to make the fat and cystic mercenaries before her curdle with fear.

The oldest merc looks at her. “Helluva of story ye’ve got, girl.”

“It’s no story,” Ashe looks painstakingly concerned as his eyes fall to the bloody knapsack in Byleth’s lap. “She’s telling the truth.”

“Ye’re gonna tell me she’s plannin’ to kill off the queen of imperial cunts next?”

Ashe looks at her and waits for an answer that never comes. “Professor, you can’t go alone." 

The oldest merc eyes that knapsack in her lap. “Nay, the lass ain’t alone.”

Fatty’s lower lip quivers. “Fucked in the head, ye are.”

“A death wish, ye askin’ for.” The merc with the cystic face croaks. “And an early grave in hell.”

Ashe has set his book aside, but he doesn’t look at her. He can’t look at her when he’s going to be sick.

Byleth cradles her bloody knapsack close to her chest and stands. 

She starts her trek into the darkness of the woods, passing under the noose in the tree as it brushes against her shoulder.

“We’ll meet soon, old friend.”

Like a wisp of air, the ashen demon departs, a ghost in the night, nothing more than a girl and a story that should’ve never existed.

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to challenge myself with writing something ~spooky~ for halloween but i'm terrible at ~spooky~ so i went for disturbing instead, which i suppose is a different kind of spooky. 
> 
> also, byleth becomes a lot more disassociated as the story goes on, which is why we get less and less insight into what she "sees" and instead, witnessing the aftermath (i also don't feel like bludgeoning the reader over and over again with violence and gore is necessarily impactful).
> 
> anyway, thanks for listening to my incoherent thoughts & thanks most of all for reading!
> 
> follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt)!


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